


A Moment Out of Time

by strangeallure



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Goodbye Sex, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 11:30:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18498061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeallure/pseuds/strangeallure
Summary: Missing scene for 2x13 "Such Sweet Sorrow".After Amanda and Sarek leave, Ash visits Michael in her quarters.Michael knows she deserves this. Deserves a last reprieve, a brief interlude where she gets what she wants, where she can pretend she gets to keep it.





	A Moment Out of Time

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not entirely happy with how the show handled their relationship this season in general and this episode in particular, so I added some introspection and context.

She needs more time.

They have a time-travel suit and a time crystal to power it, yet she’s running out of the thing itself.

Michael wants to make the minutes, the moments count, but feels the grains of time slip through her fingers, disintegrating at her touch.

The anxious beat of panic starts up in her bloodstream, but it’s curtailed by a feeling of _home_ as she tracks her parents’ departing ship outside the hull window. She’s grateful to have felt her mother’s solid embrace one more time, to hear her father articulate what he could not say after she invaded his mind to save him. She’s grateful she had the chance to thank them.

Now she’s grateful to see them leave. The Enterprise will be here in less than an hour, Control’s ships trailing only ten minutes behind. No matter what the future brings, what changes she hopes to effect, in the here and now, Michael needs her parents to be safe. Needs to know that at least two of the people she loves aren’t in immediate danger. It’s awful enough that Saru is on this ship and Tilly and Spock and-

Ash.

She can’t allow her thoughts to linger on him. Can’t allow herself to dwell on his last words to her. _This is crazy._

It can’t be crazy. It’s their only shot.

Michael proceeds to her quarters to put on the undersuit and go over her mother’s video instructions one more time. Make certain she has every single bit of information memorized, that she’s as prepared as she can be for the monumental task ahead of her.

There’s so much she wants to do instead. Watch one more holovid with Tilly, play word games with the bridge crew after their shift, eat sticky rice pudding until her belly hurts. Be held and cherished and at peace.

But there’s no time.

She has said her goodbye on the bridge, has told the crew that she loves them. There’s nothing left to say. Or there’s too much to say, and once she starts letting the words out, she might not be able to stem their flow. She might not be able to go through with the plan.

Despite what the emperor said, Michael isn’t invested in being selfless. She’s not even sure that’s what this is. And despite of what she herself told Ash, Michael doesn’t trust the mystery, not completely.

The truth is she’s scared. She wants to stay, not just delay but abort the mission. Michael doesn’t want to create a micro-wormhole and fling herself into it, pulling Discovery into the future. She doesn’t want to leave everyone behind. It doesn’t change what needs to be done.

_The needs of the many._

All that’s left to do is gear up and wait until she’s called to do the most terrifying and most necessary thing she’s ever had to do.

She enters her quarters and her hand trembles as she reaches for the Red Angel undersuit. It’s tailored to her body’s precise measurements, its fabric molded so perfectly that it retains the shape of her although she’s never tried it on. Like an ethereal entity lying on her bed, clad in all black. An insubstantial, unburdened version of Michael, uncompromised by fear and longing.

She zips up the suit, an exact replica of her mother’s. Her mother who had died twenty years ago. Her mother who hadn’t died at all.

Her strong, stubborn, brilliant mom, who all this time had been trying to save the universe, save Michael and her dad. Her mother who’d been failing again and again and again, but who had remained undefeated, had refused to give up, had kept going by sheer force of will.

Michael might see her again. Everyone on the crew pretends that’s possible; that her mother was flung back to her anchor point in the future, that Michael will find her there. That her mother’s body wasn’t torn apart by the time vortex without the navigational exoskeleton protecting her.

She wills herself to believe it, no matter the odds. It’s gauzy, fragile comfort, but it’s comfort nonetheless.

The door chimes, and hope blooms in her chest.

“Come in.”

It’s Ash.

Michael wants to sag with relief, but the tension won’t leave her body.

“If you want to talk about my martyr complex, the emperor already tried that.” It doesn’t sound snippy, just tired.

Ash gives her a lopsided smile. “I don't want that to be our last conversation,” he says, voice like silk over sandpaper, an echo of her own words from what feels so far away but has only been days.

She exhales and her muscles unlock as she crosses the room. “Good.”

They’re standing too close, all but touching, occupying each other’s space.

Up close, he looks worn out, skin sallow, with dark circles under his eyes, but his gaze is clear, focused on her, _seeing_ her.

There are conversations they should have had, issues they should have resolved, but they don’t matter now. Not with so little time left.

She takes his hand, and it’s warm like it always is, callused like it has been ever since he came back from Qo’noS. “Let’s just sit for a moment.” She whispers like it’s a secret and pulls him towards her bed.

Their thighs press together, their upper arms, too, and she pulls both his hands into her lap, a warm knot of slow, sliding caresses.

“Or maybe lie down?” The words come out tentative, although Michael knows she deserves this. Deserves a last reprieve, a brief interlude where she gets what she wants, where she can pretend she gets to keep it.

Ash’s face breaks open with warmth, and his hand moves to her hip, guiding her onto the bed until they’re stretched out face-to-face, mere inches between their bodies, knees touching. His arm curls beneath her head, a burrow for Michael to nestle into, an impermanent sanctuary; his fingers playing idly across the side of her neck, stroking along the edge of her collar.

“I didn’t think the suit would be this soft,” he says quietly and she imagines she can feel his words on her lips. “It’s almost … buttery, like aged leather.”

Michael looks up at him, noting the feel of his uniform sliding under her cheek. “And yet it’s more durable than the hull of this ship.” There might be a lesson here, but Michael doesn’t want to think about that.

She makes her voice a little louder, her tone a little more casual, like they have time for idle conversation. “In her recordings,” Michael jots her chin towards the space where her viewscreen projects video files, “my mom said she owed her life to the person who invented polyphobic meta-material, whoever he or she might be.”

Ash cocks his head. “Them, actually.”

It’s not a response she was expecting. “What?”

He sounds confident, but not smug. “It was a team effort.” His eyebrows rise to underscore the point. “A multi-disciplinary research team on Tellar Prime.”

Michael’s face scrunches up, mildly baffled. In spite of everything, she has to laugh. “How could you possibly know that?”

“History of Invention elective at the academy.” His grin is bright and his eyes sparkle in a way she hasn’t seen in a long time.

She returns his expression and it warms her face. This is good, easy when everything else feels impossible.

Michael moves in and catches his mouth in a soft kiss, heat simmering just beneath the surface. Ash takes her lead, keeps it light, playful, his hand sliding from her hip to her waist, but no further.

She could kiss like this for hours. Lazy, aimless, the two of them in a cozy bubble outside of reality.

But there’s no time.

So she’ll be selfish, wring all the pleasure, all the sensation she can from the moments that remain.

Her hand closes over his and she moves it up to her breast. His lips curve, a pleased glow spreading across his features and his touch changes, gets more confident; his thump circling the exact place where her nipple is through the fabric, as if he has memorized the outline of her breast, her body. The tension coiling inside of her makes her arch, pushing her chest into his touch, her underwear dragging deliciously against her flesh.

Ash licks his lips, slow, his eyes deep and dark, and starts kissing along her jaw, nosing under her chin; the texture of his beard a delightful counterpoint to the softness of his lips, the wet slide of his tongue.

His fingers find the zipper of the suit, pulling it down, kissing every inch of newly exposed skin. It’s good, it’s hot. She wishes they had hours and hours left, so she could just let him explore, give herself over completely.

But the future is closing in, every minute precious now. Michael wants to feel him, yes, but she wants to look at him, too. She doesn’t have words, wouldn’t, even if they could talk until morning, but she hopes he can read her face, can see in her eyes what she can’t say.

She wraps her hand around his chin and tilts it up. “I wanna look at you.”

“Yeah,” he breathes on a smile. “Yeah.”

She traces the lines of his face with her fingers, cups his cheek and slides her hand into his hair. She’s hungry for him, a desperate energy surging through her.

His hand slips inside the suit, teasing along the outline of her bra.

His voice is hoarse when he asks “Is this okay?” and the last syllable opens his mouth into a beautiful wet shape.

“Yes.” She moves in to kiss him, keeping her eyes open, holding his gaze even as it becomes hooded. The kiss is deep and deliberate, exploring the crevices of their mouths, tasting, savoring each other.

His hand slides down between their bodies, pulling the zipper as far as it will go, his palm skimming against her stomach, making her gasp, hot and hungry.

She presses herself into the curl of his fingers with a tight roll of her hips. Ash reads her right, always reads her right, hand slipping inside her underwear, fingers insinuating themselves between her folds, rubbing her clit through its fleshy hood.

Heat rushes, pools low in her belly, and she whimpers, almost sure she can taste the pleased smile on his lips. His kisses don’t let up, gaze searing into her as the circles around her clit narrow, direct stimulation now, a steady, escalating press making her hips buck, primal sounds falling from her lips.

His mouth captures each sound he elicits from her, and he seems to delight in her pleasure, his eyes all-seeing, heightening Michael’s own awareness even as she hurtles closer to the edge.

 _More more more,_ she chants in her head. So close, too close, just this side of too much.

She groans – guttural, instinctive – dragging her mouth away, burying her face in his neck, in his smell, her eyes squeezing shut. Finally, she falls. Her body clamps down, powerful contractions turning into shudders rippling through her, her teeth anchoring her in his skin.

His fingers retreat, but not by much, his whole hand clasping over her hot, pulsing sex, stroking her through her orgasm in wave-like circles.

Her thoughts and feelings melt, blur into a soft surf of contentment. She wants those waves to wash her away, carry her out onto a blissful, unending sea outside of time.

But she can’t let that happen. She has a responsibility. Michael can’t let everything her mother sacrificed be for nothing.

The thought should energize her, make her push him away so she can get ready to face her fate.

Instead, it makes her selfish, makes a primal, primitive greed claw at her core.

She scrambles away just enough to struggle out of her sleeves, ignoring the confusion on Ash’s face, pulling the suit and her underwear down to her thighs. Her legs’ range of motion is limited, but it’ll do.

“Quick,” she commands. “We don’t have much time.”

“We don’t have to-“ Ash starts, even as he fumbles with his pants and shoves them down.

“But we do,” she says, her voice low and strange, brokering no argument, and she pulls him on top of herself. “I need you inside me.”

He nods mindlessly, quickly lines himself up and slides home, the most natural, exhilarating thing. Like this was destined to be, like this is where he belongs.

And for a few more minutes, he does. Michael deserves this much.

She holds onto the swell of his ass, her hips pushing up into him. “Faster,” she pants, dry-mouthed and shameless, “harder.”

He complies, wiggling onto his forearms to gain purchase. Quick, short strokes as he thrusts inside her with lewd, wet sounds, his breath hot against the corner of her mouth.

She squeezes around him, deliberate, needing him to come, and fast. A new charge of energy, of pure power rushes through her when he groans in response, a needy, wrecked sound.

Ash buries himself inside her, deeper than bodies, deeper than reason. His orgasm shaking through him until he collapses on top of her, too heavy and just right.

His face is mashed into her neck, like he wants to burrow in, disappear inside her skin, and she strokes her hands over the back of his head, cradling him.

“I want you to go with me,” she whispers, an irrepressible, selfish impulse.

Michael doesn’t allow him to respond, tightening her hold, pressing his mouth against her throat to silence him.

“Shhh,” she breathes until he relaxes against her.

Slowly, she slides her hand out of his hair, permitting herself a few seconds to play with the damp strands at the nape of his neck.

“I need to get ready,” she says, finding the words in a reservoir of strength so deep in her bones she had almost forgotten about it.

Ash gets up, looking at her, raking a nervous hand through his hair. He might want to say something, but Michael shakes her head and he acquiesces, quickly pulling up his pants.

There’s too much pressure behind her eyes, too many thoughts swirling in her head, but her body is loose, pliable, more relaxed than it’s been in weeks.

She smiles at him, feels it split her face, expose her teeth.

Michael stretches out her hand and touches his. She wants to throw herself into his arms, ask him to take her away, shield her from the world, from her responsibility, her own sense of duty. If she takes those last steps, if she bridges the space between them, molds herself against him, she won’t be able to do this. She won’t be able to fulfill her mother’s legacy.

So she simply says “Goodbye,” and wills him to understand.

“Michael-“ Ash starts, his voice raw around her name. She shakes her head again.

He squeezes her hand with his fingers, then makes himself stand tall and pulls away. “Goodbye.”

She doesn’t watch him leave, already halfway across the room, getting a washcloth to clean herself up, when she hears the door hiss shut.

The room feels colder without him. She pulls the suit back up, letting her mother’s recordings play for the last time. Michael closes the zipper, fiddling with the suit’s half-gloves as she lets her mother’s voice wash over her like cleansing smoke. Taking comfort in her grit, the undeniable strength in her posture, in the fact that all those failures couldn’t break her.

Michael’s her mother’s daughter. She can do this.

When Tilly and the crew pledge their allegiance to her, she almost cries. A wild hope pounds inside her rib cage, makes her breath come out shallow, that this pledge includes Ash, too, that she gets to have him, have him with her, no matter what happens.

It’s a fragile hope, brittle like glass spun too thin, and when he pulls her aside, it shatters.

“You’re not coming, are you?” She can’t identify the emotion in her own voice.

Ash’s mouth works, expression shifting, running through the gamut of emotion. His eyes are too large, shining too bright, his lips pressing into a line that’s not a smile but still brings out his dimples, making him look younger, even with the beard.

“I wish I could say yes.” His voice, his posture, his eyes – everything about him is pleading with her, pleading for understanding, for forgiveness.

What hurts the most is that he’s right. She, the captain, the crew, even Admiral Cornwell – they all pretend like this is over if only they can send Discovery into the future, away from Control.

In truth, they’ll leave the Enterprise and most of Discovery’s crew behind to battle thirty enemy ships alone.

In truth, Control managed to infiltrate Section 31 and kill several of Starfleet’s most high-ranking officers _without_ access to the sphere data.

The odds are not in their favor, even if everything goes according to plan. The future is not safe, and Ash and the emperor seem to be the only ones clear-eyed enough to see that.

They really are needed here.

It doesn’t change anything about the deep sense of loss, of betrayal, that floods her, her bloodstream burning with it.

The comm sounds: the captain, ordering her to the bridge.

“I’ll be right there,” she says numbly, like the fire in her veins has burned away her emotions, her pain receptors.

Michael turns around and takes a few steps.

She’s walking away. She’s walking away and he lets her, in spite of the pain she saw painted across his face. Because he respects her and her decision. Because he respects her sense of duty. Because he feels bound by duty, too.

 _I don't want that to be our last conversation_ , she thinks, but they’re out of time.

Michael turns and darts across the space between them, flinging her arms around Ash, their mouths fitting together instantly, flawlessly. Her eyes slide shut, trying to keep her emotions from spilling over, to center herself in his kiss.

Gentle fingers come up to touch her face; so little pressure, such careful caresses as they part just enough to look at each other. The softness in his touch, the tenderness in his gaze – everything telling her she’s cherished, precious.

Michael’s bones feel too heavy, her heart too full, and she sobs with the weight of her own emotions. Ash’s forehead presses against hers, his head tilting for a final kiss. If she doesn’t leave right now, Michael knows she will stay in his arms forever.

So she pulls herself away, only opening her eyes once her back is to him.

Squaring her shoulders, she walks away in quick strides.

Michael knows it’s the right thing. They’re both doing the right thing.

Inside the turbolift, her first breaths come out wet and ragged, but then they abate like the tide, and by the time she reaches the bridge, Michael’s quiet, composed.

She can do this.

She’s the Red Angel.

**Author's Note:**

> Like all my stories, this is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), whose goal is to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites:
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>  **Feedback** : short comments, long comments, questions, constructive criticism, "<3" as extra kudos, reader-reader interaction
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